Funny How These Things Turn Out
by dget
Summary: "Of course, this refreshing lack of condescension has the flip side of Sherlock being unlikely to see a problem with, say, leaving a child alone in a room of live power tools, so Greg feels he is justified in keeping one eye on the interaction between his seven-year-old daughter and the detective." A fluffy Christmas drabble, from Lestrade's perspective.


**A/N:** A fluffy, pointless piece with no plot to speak of, simply because I've been reading a lot of angst lately and wanted to write everyone a happy ending.

000

It's Christmas Eve and Gregory Lestrade once again finds himself at 221B Baker Street for a holiday party put on by the last people on earth who ought to be throwing parties of any sort. Allowing two men whose idea of an exciting weekend is a locked-room murder and a subsequent back-alley foot chase to be in charge of the festivities is a very poor idea indeed.

However, John and Sherlock seem to be on their best behavior tonight, and are playing attentive hosts (well, John is, anyways; Sherlock can't be arsed to get his own plate, much less a guest's). The little flat is comfortably crowded with people – Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, Molly's new boyfriend, Scott, and John's sister Harry and her wife, Clara, along with their eleven-month-old son. Mike Stamford from Bart's had stopped by for a bit, bringing with him a gift of a bottle of wine (which had immediately been stashed in the cupboard in deference to Harry's presence), and even Mycroft Holmes had made a brief appearance before begging off to attend to matters of international import.

Then, of course, there is Greg's own seven-year-old daughter, Grace, who is currently running amok through the flat. He had been wary of bringing his daughter to such a function, but had been assured by John that 221B had been made suitable for the occasion. _"Sherlock's had to bin a few metatarsals – sent him into a proper sulk, but I refuse to expose my nephew to any biohazards…" _Indeed, the flat looks positively cheery, strung up with fairy lights and greenery (presumably Mrs. Hudson's doing), and filled with the warm smell of gingerbread. It is, he must admit, much more inviting than his own Spartan flat, where he would otherwise be celebrating a smaller and sadder Christmas with his daughter as his ex-wife takes a honeymoon with her new husband in the Virgin Islands. He has to admit, as he twists his neck in an attempt to locate his daughter without rising from his seat, that Grace is enjoying herself much more here than she would have at home.

He finally catches a glimpse of Gracie in the kitchen, where she is attempting to decorate gingerbread men with Molly. Poor Molly, so proficient with her lab equipment, doesn't seem to have an artistic bone in her body – her biscuit people bear an unfortunate (and surely accidental, as opposed to what Greg might think had, say, _Sherlock_ decorated the cookies) resemblance to the mangled victims she examines down in the morgue. At least she's in good company at the moment – Grace can't be bothered with neat lines with how eager she is to eat the icing straight. The two females look at each other's work and laugh, and Greg can't help the smile that spreads over his own face as he watches.

Yes, the dynamic at this party is certainly a change from the last one he'd attended here – though five years is certainly ample time for change. For one thing, Harry, Clara, and baby Fred are present, looking like a beautiful little family, betraying nothing of the past turmoil John had indicated the few times he'd spoken to Greg of his sister's doings. Mycroft's brief visit is notable, as well. Greg supposes that perhaps both of his hosts are attempting to rebuild some bridges this holiday season.

Thankfully, too, this year's party is free of the awkwardness that had once been Molly and Sherlock. The pathologist is evidently long past her infatuation – Greg has good reason to suspect this is largely due to the three weeks the detective spent crashing on her sofa while playing dead. Living with Sherlock is probably enough to cure anyone of thinking well of him – anyone except, apparently, John, for whom living with Sherlock has seemingly had the opposite effect. Something is clearly a little broken in John, that living with the consulting detective makes him happy, that he would move back in after his wife's early and sudden death just over a year ago. But perhaps the two flatmates are each broken in just the right ways for each other. Hell, most of the time they get on better than Greg ever did with his ex-wife. For the hundredth time, the DI wonders what exactly the two men are to each other – but he promptly dismisses the thought. It isn't any of his business and he doesn't want to know, not really.

Currently, Sherlock and John are sitting on opposite ends of the sofa. Fred is nestled peacefully in his uncle's fuzzy jumper as Molly converses with his mothers, and Greg smiles to see the tender expression on John's face. Greg himself became a father relatively late in life, and he knows too well how it feels to be quite sure you won't be having children of your own. The doctor seems fairly content at the moment, though, simply to have his nephew asleep in his arms. Gracie has moved to occupy the middle of the couch, bouncing between the two men, one moment asking John stage-whisper questions about the baby ("Why does he sleep so much? When will he wake up? If I give him a gingerbread man that I made can he eat it?") and the next pestering Sherlock about his violin.

Children generally like Sherlock - a fact that had surprised the DI when he'd first realized. Probably it has something to do with the way the consulting detective never talks down to them, and simply treats them like short adults. Of course, this refreshing lack of condescension has the flip side of Sherlock being unlikely to see a problem with, say, leaving a child alone in a room of live power tools, so Greg feels he is justified in keeping one eye on their interaction.

Sherlock is being uncharacteristically patient with Gracie at the moment, however, explaining the nuances of composing. Most of it is going over the seven-year-old's head, but Greg can tell that she's only angling to get her hands on the instrument, in any case, and he's quite sure that it's never going to happen. Oh well, if she's displaying genuine interest in the instrument, perhaps he can buy her a children's violin as a late Christmas present. More likely, though, she'll be distracted by something else shortly and will soon forget all about her desire to play.

000

A half hour later, Greg looks up from his conversation with Mrs. Hudson to see that Grace has fallen asleep on the couch, leaning on Sherlock's leg. The consulting detective does not look discomfited by this in the slightest – that would be the lack of a sense of personal space, yes – and merely extends one arm behind the couch and pulls out a blanket, which is draped carelessly over Grace before Sherlock resumes his quiet cleaning of his instrument. Greg laughs quietly when he registers the bright orange color of the blanket. Trust John and Sherlock to have an accumulated stash of shock blankets in their flat. John, too, seems to find the situation amusing, as he looks up and grins at his flatmate. Sherlock smiles back, in that way that he only ever smiles at John, and then the two of them are grinning at each other like idiots with the borrowed children asleep between them and the whole tableau is so adorable as to be nearly sickening. Greg has to turn back to Mrs. Hudson, who has followed his gaze and is watching the two men with a fond look.

"Looks like Gracie's had her sugar crash," he sighs, to break the silence, and Mrs. Hudson tuts back about holiday exceptions being made for the number of sweets allowed before segueing into a story about her book club's annual cookie exchange and the time Mrs. Turner's poodle got into the Florentines.

As Greg listens with half an ear, he can't help but let his mind wander, contemplating the improbable series of events that have led to this night. He never would have thought, all those years ago, that the coked-out young man who'd made a habit of insinuating himself into cases would have affected the path of his life in the slightest. Yet, here he is, sitting in that man's flat, speaking with his landlady, with his own daughter using the man for a pillow – _alive _because the man was willing to make a sacrifice to protect him from a mad criminal.

There is no doubt in Greg's mind – the day that Sherlock Holmes stepped off of that roof five years ago was the day that a great man became a good one.

Funny how these things turn out.

000

**A/N: **I tried to make this work with the canon timeline, assuming that Sherlock is gone for three years (ACD canon), but I didn't stress too hard over it. Gracie would have been two at the time of the fall, and Lestrade's wife would have had custody while they were estranged. I'm also pretending that Harry's been sober for the majority of those five years and that she and Clara got back together. I completely fudged the timeline with John and Mary.

The idea of shock blankets squirreled around 221B is not my own, but I've been unable to find the fic I lifted it from. If you know which fic it is, please let me know so I can ask/credit the person whose idea it was!

Reviews and criticisms always appreciated.


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